When You Wake
by RavenclawPride06
Summary: Set post-RBF. Starts immediately after the fall. Sherlolly. If she'd known what her life would become afterwards, would she agree to save his life again? Yes, she thinks, over and over. Now contains sexy times.
1. Chapter 1

Hey guys! So, I was going to post this as a one-shot but I wanted to put something up before I went away. So, sorry for the shortness and the kind of sucky is-that-really-an-ending ending. Also I was going to get this beta'd (oops!) but I'm really impatient, however, if you would be interested in looking over the next chapter(s) of this story for me, message me!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the relatively un-original storyline.

Happy reading!

* * *

Her hands tremble as she fills out the certificate. She knows there will only be a few more minutes before they have company. She has to move the body, get him to safety.

She has no idea why he trusted her with this; she thought they would be in it together. She has never felt as alone as she does now. She looks at his lifeless form, there is only her, no one else can do the task he laid out for her. _You've always counted and I've always trusted you. _His words buzz around her head until she can't think clearly. She carries out the rest of her task with blurred senses. Later, she'll hardly even remember what happened the day Sherlock died.

It is not until she opens the door to her flat, the groggy weight of Sherlock weighing her down, that Molly realises she has been holding her breath. She gulps in air with the greediness of a new-born and once she's laid Sherlock out on her sofa she collapses, head resting on the edge of the cushions on which he lays. She doesn't hear him fidgeting but comes out of her catatonia when she hears his voice.

'M- Molly?' His voice is even gruffer than usual, it sounds like he's slept for days and just woken up.

'Oh… Sherlock! Sorry! I- I'll just- drink! You'll want a drink!' He looks at her; well, tries to at least, his eyes are unfocused. Her brows furrow in concern for a moment, before she remembers her task. Hurrying to the kitchen she grabs a bottle of cold water from the fridge and it almost slips though her fingers where there is moisture on the outside of the bottle.

_Breathe Molly! _She chides herself, _everything is ok. He's safe now._ It is the last bit that reassures her but when she hears him start coughing incessantly from the other room she hurries back to his side. He looks awful. _As awful as a man like him can look. _She sighs, handing him the water, and doesn't catch the questioning look in his eyes as she does. The blood has dried though his hair, making it rock solid. His face and clothes are just as stained his cheeks flushed red from the effort of coughing. He winces in pain as he sits up slightly to take a drink, and Molly winces with him.

'Where does it hurt?' She asks, her voice gentle.

'All over, from what I can tell.' He attempts a smirk but looks as if he is going to be sick instead.

'Sherlock,' she attempts to reason, 'I can't help you if you don't let me.'

'My ribs, mostly, I actually think I landed on my right hand side.' Her hands probe his side though the shirt he is wearing, but again, she sees only the pain on his face.

'I'll just go get some supplies…' she almost tells him to stay where he is, and then smiles when she realises how stupid that would sound. Once she would have given anything to be in a position where Sherlock was physically incapable of moving from her sofa. _Not if his discomfort was the price_, she thought sadly.

Rushing to get her hands on everything she needs, she fills the washing up bowl with warm water and proceeds to her medicine cabinet. She has no drugs stronger than paracetamol, but she supposes it's better than nothing in his case. When she returns to the kitchen sink, the water has overflowed. _Typical. _She hefts it up and sets it next to the sofa, along with the fluffy towels she's collected.

She hands him the tablets with no words, and in return he raises a sceptical eyebrow, but doesn't complain. He takes two, and swallows them down with a mouthful of water. Her hands start to shake again and she vaguely wonders whether they've ever stopped. They hover over the top buttons of his shirt, one of her favourites and practically ruined. She's unsure whether to ask his permission before unbuttoning it. Not only is she used to the bodies she undresses being dead but she has imagined this moment so many times, under severely different circumstances. _She'd never had to ask permission then, _she almost smirks at the thought despite its inappropriateness.

She hears him sigh, 'Now is not the time to be coy, Dr. Hooper.' She wonders whether he calls her by her professional name on purpose. Whatever the reason, his statement works and as she opens his shirt, she wills her breath not to catch, her pulse not to quicken, her pupils not to dilate.

Hiding her blushes she averts her gaze to retrieve the towels. It doesn't help that his vision seems to have re-focused and his eyes are on Molly's face as she wipes the blood from his neck and brow gently.

Once the blood is cleaned off she returns to his ribs, her hands gliding over the smooth skin that is starting to redden. She can hear his sharp intakes of breath as she works, doing her best to ignore them.

Glancing up at him she gives him her diagnosis, 'I can't be sure for certain without X-rays, but it seems as if you've fractured one.' Sherlock's face shows only the mildest irritation, signalling that he's aware he won't be able to move around much for the next few weeks, especially with limited medical access.

'We need to make sure you don't sleep on that side either, I mean- um, I'll bring you some more cushions later on and help you arrange them.' It annoyed Molly that most of the time she was in his presence; she could barely get her words out. _For God's sake, Molly, you just helped save the man's life. _Her eyes flickered back to his face, where there was a new bruise she hadn't noticed before.

'Oh, God,' she panicked, putting a hand to his cheekbone without thinking. 'Did you hit your head?'

'I don't really recall,' his eyes revealed a twinkle of mischief, 'but it amuses me how you are more concerned about my face than my cracked ribs.'

She huffs and retorts, 'Actually I was worried about your head,' she gets up and leaves the room to locate more pillows, including the ones from her own bed. By the time she returns, however, he has already drifted off to sleep and she has to make the best of the job on her own, careful not to jostle him.


	2. Chapter 2

She doesn't know how to deal with him when he's not catatonic. Mainly, they end up skirting around each other, well she skirts, Sherlock just outright ignores her. The only exception is when she is making sure he has everything he needs, and then his attention seems to be solely on her, so much so she feels she wants to run from the room.

If she'd known what her life would become afterwards, would she agree to save his life again? _Yes, she thinks, over and over. Because he might be arrogant and he might be hurtful but she loves him dammit, she loves him and his brilliant mind._ Still, she thinks of the consequences, not only is her home life awkward; sometimes she feels if _she's_ the intruder into Sherlock's life, but she has to lie to everyone she counts as a friend… John, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade. The thing that she hates the most about the lies is that they're all such good people that all they want to do is make her feel better. Poor, love-struck, Molly, devastated by the death of a man who could never return the love she gave him.

The whole world believes him to be dead, only she knows the truth. She's always hated lying, but when the choice is between that and Sherlock's actual death, there is no contest.

Very commonly, her frustration comes out as anger, and for the most part she is grateful that people believe this is grief. She is allowed two weeks away from work, but when she returns, John awaits her.

She almost tells him how well Sherlock is healing.

He looks broken. And she knows that she can fix him. She hates lying to John most of all.

'Molly,' his voice is sympathetic, and she can hardly stand it.

'John,' her own voice comes out strangled, maybe if she cries he won't expect her to lie to him.

He wraps her up in a hug, and every fibre of her being wants to push him off and run away from the person she's become. Every word she speaks is laced with deceit, all for one man, a man who will never care for her the way she wants him to. And now she's stood here in the arms of another man, a man who trusts her, and she's preparing herself by building armour she's never had a need for.

'How, are you doing, Molly?' he asks, voice as soft as if he were rocking a babe to sleep in his arms. 'Greg said you were, back today, he thinks it's too soon; we all think it's too soon.'

Now she does, shrug him off, gently though, as if she's afraid of breaking him, or perhaps of breaking herself. 'I'm fine, John.' She says, not able to look him in the eyes, she wonders how long it will be before she is able to again.

'You didn't come,' he means to the funeral and for the way he asks it is clear her friends have been discussing the possible reasons. She doubts the truth ever crossed their minds.

'No, I didn't- I…' She struggles to form words that will make him leave her alone. Make them all leave her alone, so she can sit in the world where Sherlock still lives and share his air and pretend she's not lying to anyone.

John seems to identify her difficulty to speak as grief and makes small talk for ten minutes before leaving her along with nothing but her guilt and the silence of the lab.

When she arrives home Sherlock says, 'You saw John today,' with his eyes roaming her body before catching hers in a patient stare. She isn't sure if he expects an answer or not and she's not in the mood so she takes it as a statement. Sherlock proceeds to be silent for the next two hours, not even blinking when Toby curls up in his lap.

_Maybe they've gotten used to each other's company, _Molly thinks.

She even has to lie to her brother, when he asks to spend the week at her place so he can see his buddies in London. She tells him one of her girlfriends is stopping with her, whilst she sorts her marriage out. It brings a sad smile to her face when she realises her brother doesn't know her life at all, otherwise he would have seen right through the lie. She doesn't have any married female friends in London.

Even though Sherlock had warned her there was a high chance it would happen, Molly was still surprised when she opened the door to Mycroft, leaning on an umbrella. Even though she had never met Mycroft in person, she noted the expensive suit, and the dark, official looking car in the background, and guessed, -no- deduced.

'Ah, Dr Hooper,' Mycroft says as he sweeps though her front door and into her hallway.

'Mycroft, how… nice of you to visit,' he looks up sharply –obviously hearing something in her tone or manner of speaking that he finds odd – and, if he wasn't convinced she was hiding something before, he is now.

'Miss Hooper,' he trains his eyes on her, pensively. He looks at her with shock for a moment as if somebody has told him something he never thought he would hear, 'you really lov-'

'That's doctor to you, Mycroft,' a rumbling voice says, as its owner enters the room by way of the kitchen stairs.

'Sherlock,' if Mycroft is surprised it hardly registers, the younger man lifts an eyebrow and Mycroft turns towards Molly and apologises with a swift bow of his head.

'I knew it wouldn't take you long to find me, even if my-,' Sherlock seems to struggle for the right words and Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up an inch or two. 'My pathologist,' he continues, 'was not such a terrible liar.'

So now she was not the only person in the world who shared Sherlock's secret, though she gained no relief from the fact. Mycroft Holmes was used to telling lies to keep secrets, Molly Hooper was not.

* * *

She had a lunch date and she was excited, she registered Sherlock's eyebrows furrowing as she left for work that morning, but he said nothing and neither did she.

His name was Billy, he was a doctor from Bart's and a damn good one at that from what the gossipy young interns said when they visited her morgue.

They were sat at a café close enough to Bart's to walk to but far enough away that they could avoid prying eyes. He was an excellent conversationalist and she had laughed more on the walk there than she had in the past couple of months.

They had just ordered when her phone pinged, signalling a text:

'William Mark Scott.'

She felt a wave of irritation at the man; even so she felt her curiosity piqued.

'He's not gay,' she typed back with rather more force than was needed.

'No, he's married.'

She stared blankly at the screen, raising her gaze to the man sat before her. Jim –_Moriarty_- hadn't been gay as it had turned out, but he had purposefully left breadcrumbs, a trail to lead Sherlock to that conclusion.

And people that knew Molly knew that she could handle herself well, when the man in question wasn't Sherlock.

'Billy,'

'Hmm?' he responded, meeting her gaze with a cheeky grin.

'Are you married?' she looked into his eyes and saw him searching around for an answer, before he could give one Molly had gathered up her things and was walking back towards Bart's with not one glance backwards. She couldn't help the little grin that had slid on to her face as she congratulated herself. Across the street, lapel turned up to the slight breeze, Sherlock Holmes too allows himself a wry smile as he slips into the cab and heads in the direction he came.

When Molly returns home from work she decides she will confront Sherlock. She's let him get away with too much already. 'Have you been watching me at work?' She says as she enters the flat.

'I had to make sure you were safe after all, I mean Mycroft has men following you, but I don't entirely trust him not to conceal the truth. And if Mycroft worked it out, it's not a massive stretch of the imagination that Moriarty's men are far behind in their conclusions.' He looks at her and adds, 'they're clever men, and we shouldn't underestimate them.'

'You're joking me?' But the look in his eyes reveals genuine sentiment and that is something Molly doesn't know how to respond to when it comes from this man.

She murmurs something that may or may not be her thanks and retires to her bedroom, kicking herself for not having the ability to be _Molly_ around him.

* * *

He lounges in her doorway and it takes him a few seconds to spot him. It is not the easy way he lounges that unnerves her but the intense stare that focuses everything on her. She feels like the centre of the universe when he looks at her like that and she's not sure if it's a good thing.

She jumps up from where she has been relaxing on her bed and her book tumbles to the floor. She feels nervous all of a sudden, with his gaze on her as if he can read her innermost thoughts in the depths of her eyes, perhaps he can.

'Can I help you? Do you need something, Sherlock?'

He steps towards her, 'I'm pretty sure I've answered this question before, under different circumstances.'

She holds her breath as he takes another step towards her, 'In this case the answer is the same as before.'

Molly realises that she has backed into the nightstand and vaguely she hears something clatter to the floor but she can't tear her big brown eyes away from his indescribable ones.

Closing the gap between them, he proceeds to pull her flush against him with some force. Her head starts to spin as it had on the day she signed his death certificate when he lowers his lips to hers. Where at first her lips were crushed under the pressure, his lips became gentle against hers, worried that he would stop she moaned out a protest. He doesn't even try to stop the grin that melts on to his face, and she can feel it underneath her lips. A giggle bubbles up inside her and she breaks away, hiding her blushes by resting her forehead against his.

'Red suits you, Dr Hooper,' he growls before moving his lips down to kiss and nip and lick at her neck. She feels her pulse jumping erratically at the touch of his tongue and she knows he can feel it too.

His lips follow his fingers as they unbutton her blouse.

Doubts flood into her mind and she tries to relax, but soon enough she finds her hands jumping up to cover his, and stop them in their tracks. He takes a step back, confused, trying to find answers in those warm brown eyes of hers.

'Is this what you want, Sherlock?' she asks, 'Is this okay with you?'

He looks at her incredulously, 'You are aware that I was the one who came in here?' she gives a small nod and he sighs, it is clear that she would like him to elaborate further. 'Contrary to popular opinion, I do have sexual urges,' She gives a little 'Oh!' and her blush deepens. 'In addition, you know I care for you, Molly Hooper, and after living together, I've come to want you in ways I never have before.'

'Bloody hell Sherlock, you know I've wanted you for months, no, years!' she looks at him with unbridled passion.

He almost looks surprised at her speech. Almost. But as soon as she's falls quiet Sherlock brings his lips back to hers with a renewed energy. He pushes the shirt from her shoulders and pushes her onto her own bed. Straddling her hips her leans down and kisses her breathless. She tugs the base of his dark curls hard enough that he surprises himself by emitting a noise of pleasure. It's her turn to smile as she turns her attention to his shirt. Finally she manages to get it off without tearing it in her frustration. She trails her fingers softly over the newly uncovered muscles of his back, lightly digging her fingernails into his skin. He groans and presses himself closer to her, licking at her collarbone before relieving her of her bra.

She once again giggles as she flips him over with a twist of her hips. Sliding down his body she plants kisses as she goes. Gone is shy, mousy, pathologist Molly, _no one could deduce that she would be this feisty and confident in the bedroom_, Sherlock thinks, _no one. _He groans as he feels her loosen him from his trousers and give him a few appreciative strokes. It is a groan that turns into a growl when he raises his head to see her watching his reactions brazenly. When she knows she has his attention she sticks out her tongue, licking his head slowly, before grinning and engulfing his whole length with her mouth. He groans loudly and plays with the loose strands of hair around her face as she bobs up and down. He can feel himself building and lets out a warning; 'Molly!' she slows but does not stop and he is forced to push her off and grasp her hands. She gives what he decides from now on he will dub her 'naughty girl smile,' and he loosens his grip returning to his previous position above her.

His lips travel down to her breasts and he teases her before swirling his tongue around her left nipple and taking it in his mouth. She starts at the wet heat but moans, and her hands automatically jump to his curls. Her fingernails scramble to press him closer, just as her back arches to do the same. He gives the same treatment to her right breast as his fingertips slide down her body, gently caressing the sides of her waist before giving her a taste of her own medicine and digging his fingernails in. She gasps as she feels her walls throb, her desire for him to go lower reaching a point that is almost painful. A pain only his touch can sooth, a pain that only increases as he lifts his lips to hers once again, and drags his teeth across her lips in stinging pleasure.

She needs him, and whimpers 'Sherlock, please,' when he releases her from his greedy kisses. He opens his eyes to take a look in hers and obeys her, trailing kisses back the way he'd come. Down her chin and neck, between her breasts and over her tummy. He registers her whimpers getting louder and she pleads with him to keep going. He had never thought that it could be so erotic, her pleasure dependent on him and the fire in his belly burns. His fingers register how wet she's become for him, and he wants to be wrapped in her, engulfed entirely by her smell and the feel of her moving underneath him.

Molly feels his fingers slide into her, when they're followed by his lithe tongue she lets out a squeak, hands nesting in his hair once again. His tongue massages her, brushing once, twice, over her sensitive spot, stomach muscles clenching every time he touches her there. His fingers speed up, silky smooth as she's always imagined them, and she nearly shatters right there. She screams that she's close (_ohgodSherlock!) _and he takes the little bundle of nerves into his mouth and sucks. She screams his name as she comes with his fingers still inside her and doesn't register anything until his lips touch hers, gently.

She deepens the kiss, their tongues entwine and she feels his hard length pressed up against her. Her core still clenches from the orgasm he has given her and as he slides into her for the first time, she clenches around him as if to prevent him from leaving. He sheathes himself in her and buries his head in her neck. He starts to rock his hips, slowly at first and then faster as he finds his rhythm. She whispers and moans his name into his ear like a mantra, rocking her own hips up to meet his own, rising to meet him again and again. She feels him speed up, hitting a spot inside her that's just right, he feels how close he is and he reaches down to put pressure on her clit. She orgasms loudly, and her grip around him is all he needs, he releases, and still thrusting into her he gasps out, 'Molly!' before his arms give way and he collapses, his nose resting at the nape of her neck, warm breath tickling her skin.

* * *

She wakes to sun streaming in at her windows. With her brain clumsy from sleep she has to think for a moment why she neglected to close the curtains the night before. Remembering, she rolls over to be greeted by the sleepy smile on none other than Sherlock Holmes. She was extremely pleased to note the butterflies hadn't gone as he leaned over to place a soft kiss on her lips.

Nuzzling into her neck he is loath to bring up the subject, needs must though, and he had already stuck around so he could have the memory of how she looked when she woke up tucked safely away in his mind palace.

'Molly,' He started.

'Sherlock,' she smiled brightly up at him. _Oh, yes, _he thinks, _definitely worth sticking around._

'I have to leave today, I finally have enough information to start taking down Moriarty's web.'

Confusion blossoms across her features, 'but… now?' he silences her with another peck on the lips.

She follows him, lost. Not registering until he squeezes her hand and walks out of her door that he's left her there. It seems he had everything arranged, his things packed, transportation sorted. How had she not noticed? How had she not _seen_?

She wanted to hurl something at the closed door. How could he do this to her? Perhaps their night together had been nothing more than 'don't stop loving me and my fragile little ego while I'm away, will you?' No man could ever infuriate her more. She unclenched her palms; she'd been holding them tightly shut. She looked down to find a note, as if he'd known her doubts before she'd had them; '_I will come back for you, Molly, if I can. Never forget that you count.'_

'_If I can?' _ Dread fills her, she hadn't even thought to whisper a 'be safe,' she texts it instead, hoping he hasn't left his phone behind.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sighed as he sank down into the soft leather seat of the car Mycroft had provided. He let his head fall back and his eyes flutter closed. Allowing the images he had stored to come to life against the backdrop of his eyelids.

He was more tired than he'd ever been in his life, but it had been worth it, he was finally going _home_. Home to John, to Mrs. Hudson and most of all to Molly, his Molly Hooper. He had been as surprised as she was on the night he had gone to her bedroom. In the days preceding, he had frequently had to delve deeper into his mind palace to keep himself from trying to get a waft of the perfume she wore. He felt something he had felt before when he was around her, but never for as an extended period of time, _distraction._ And then, before he knew it he was leaning on her doorframe, saying thing that he'd meant to leave unsaid, and pushing himself up against her.

He'd almost regretted it the instant he left, _if only I'd waited one more day, _he'd told himself. Because once he'd left her, those memories were like sharp stabs of pain to rival the physical scars he'd already gained. They mocked him as he drifted off to sleep, often in the early hours of the morning, just as the sun was coming up.

It is going dark now, as they enter the outskirts of London in the blacked out car. He looks out and sees the flicker of the street lights as they pass. Each one gives off a warm glow as it fills the interior of the car, only to vanish as they pass by it with speed. The lights remind him of his memories of Molly and how they were the only things keeping him going for the past three months.

The driver asks him where too, and though this is the same driver that picked him up all those weeks ago, he looks surprised when Sherlock mumbles Molly's address rather that Baker street. The car draws up alongside Molly's apartment and Sherlock notes that it is almost exactly the same place as it was when he departed.

Despite wanting nothing more than to be here, Sherlock begins to feel mildly nervous, _what if she's asleep? Found someone else? _Though his mind is telling him these suggestions are wildly improbable (it's only half past nine after all), his imagination begins to go haywire. He is trying to summon up the courage to tell the driver that he's changed his mind; he wants to go to 221B after all. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock spots a movement and glancing up, he sees the door open cautiously. Climbing out of the car, he turns to look once more, and sees Molly. He smiles as he takes in the sight of her, cheeks flushed, mismatched pyjamas on and half cowering behind the door, but the hall light shines behind her head and he has never seen anything more compelling in his entire life.

He starts up the stairs and scoops her up in his arms, vaguely hearing the car rumbling off down the street. They stand there, clinging to each other and not saying a word until Molly starts to shiver and Sherlock makes an exaggerated point of pulling her inside.

He pulls her onto the sofa, exhaustion flowing away with every second he's with her. She has some hospital programme that he doesn't bother to remember the name of but knows she likes to shout at on the TV. It's been muted as if she was listening for something and he wonders how many times she's done that since he's been away. Her socked feet come up to rest on his lap and she looks comfortable there as if they sit this way every night. Her eyes are wide with just drinking him in and as a result it is a couple of minutes before she finally speaks.

'So, you're done?' she asks, and seems to be slightly nervous as she awaits his answer.

Smiling, he places a hand on her foot, just to hold her, 'totally done,' he replies and she lets out a breath.

'And John?'

'What about him?'

'How did he react?'

'I,' here he takes his eyes off hers, he knows that she will have expected him to see John first, everyone did. 'I haven't seen him yet, besides, it's late.'

She sits flabbergasted and starts a speech that only lasts until the full force of what he said hits her. Stopping she looks to him and nudges him with her foot, grinning almost cheekily.

'Yes, okay, I'll say it. I wanted to see you first, and nothing was going to stop me.'

She smiles at him properly then, and if anything could make him admit something he didn't want to it would be her blinding smile.

* * *

He comes to sit on the end of her bed as she finishes in the bathroom. He has already used her shower and when he tried to persuade her to join him she had insisted on making him something to eat.

He strips down to his boxers before laying his head down on the pillow closest to him. Molly comes to his side not two minutes later, crawling up to rest herself on her elbows, one either side of his head.

He slides a hand up, over her cheek and smooths her hair back behind her ear. Tugging gently at her ponytail he loosens it and her hair cascades down over her shoulders and it brings with it the smell of her perfume he so loves. It surprises him when his stomach tightens before flipping over. His fingertips catch in her hair as the knots gently come undone. She leans down, catching his lips in a tender kiss, and she tries to convey the emotions she felt earlier tonight, when he returned to her.

The lamp that had fallen from the bedside table during their previous encounter had been returned to its original spot and was bathing the bedroom in a soft glow. Her skin glowed a soft orange as he ran his fingers over it, helping her disrobe.

The last time there had been a fiery passion and greediness; this was a slow, soft slide into oblivion. He entered her from below, never taking his eyes from hers as they rode each wave together. It is more intense than their first time, as if they're frightened to look away from each other, frightened of what might happen if they do.

The pressure builds, for both of them, and when they finally hit the crest, they hit it together. Shaking, Molly collapses onto Sherlock's chest, he is still inside her and she almost cries as emotion overwhelms her. She has him back and feels both stronger and weaker than she has in a long time.

* * *

AN: Sorry if this was short/ feels rushed / is disappointing in any way. I just sat down like an hour and a half ago to just write it sooo. Thank you for reading you guys! And for commenting if you did so, it is much appreciated. Hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have :-)


End file.
